Paco Perez sports a shaved-skull; a goatee frames
his masculine jaw. He sits at a kitchen table polishing a
gold watch; his strokes timed to salsa’s rhythm.

Testosterone pumps through his veins like a percolating
volcano.

GISELA I’m worried, papi…I don’t understand why those checks haven’t come. PACO The government likes to take money, not give it. Don’t worry about it. GISELABut I called Medicare. They told me the checks—

PACO I said, don’t worry about it.

Gisela rests brimming espresso cup next to Paco.

GISELA And then the insurance companies stop paying all of a sudden. I don’t know if I messed up the billing or…
Paco grabs her by the waist.

PACO This is man’s work to worry about money…otherwise you’ll get all wrinkled and vieja. Te amo, baby.

He releases her; returns to polishing.

PACO Aren’t you going shopping with the Chicas? Shouldn’t they be here by now?